The Calm Before the Storm
by Bingo7
Summary: I think Cassandra is so awesome, so I just wrote a little thing with her in the midst of the Trojan War. R and R!


**Cassandra**

It was quiet. There weren't even moans from the wounded soldiers scattered through the rooms. No weary wanderer was passing through the halls. Not even the whisper of night was present in the thick darkness. There was only one slim silver stream of moonlight that had managed to come into her darkened curtained chamber. It wasn't morning Everyone was asleep. So why had she woken up?

There was hardly any air in the room. It smelt of death and if sorrow had a scent, it was there too. She moved silently and arose from her bed and pulled a shawl around her cold bare shoulders, and wrapped it around her dark head. She knew once she was awake, she would never be able to get back to sleep, although she wished she could sleep forever and never awaken.

Everything was so calm. It was amazing the word still existed in that devastated war torn city of Troy. The only calm came at night when the people could escape to their dreams, away from the horrors that surrounded them. But they always had to wake up to another dark morning with more mourning and more war. There was hardly any peace in the constant battles their men were having with the ferocious Greeks. It seemed they would never leave. They were determined to carry on their bloody work until they either accomplished their goal or died trying.

Troy was just as resolute.

The young princess stepped out of her room and made her way through the castle without tripping over the many bodies that were strewn there. Soldiers, noblemen, and pheasants had taken refuge there. Everyday they would look over the walls to watch the damage, then try to go on with their lives without feeling a little more sorrowful and little more desperate. Usually she pitied them and lamented with them, but sometimes she would stare coldly at her stubborn people with the thought, 'They brought this upon themselves, the fools!'

She had told them...countless of times! Helen of the Fair Cheeks had brought nothing but misery and heartache. No fame, no glory, only death. The Greeks would win. The gods willed it. They might as well kill themselves rather subject themselves to the hands of the wretched Greeks. She shuddered at just the thought.

The walls were before her. They were always filled with anxious spectators during the day, but in the dead of night, there was just the lone prophetess, Cassandra. Her cold white hands gripped the rough edges of the parapet so tightly, they hurt. But she didn't noticed as she gazed out across the vast field before her through empty dark blue eyes. Her long russet, almost black, hair swirled around her as a cold cruel wind flew around her, chilling her very soul.

Although it was pitch black she could see the once beautiful grassland before her was now covered with rotting corpses of both the Grecian and Trojan warriors. So many dead, so many unburied, left to the vultures, who had become very fat and plentiful in the past years. There were so much carnage, corpses, and blood, Cassandra wondered how the men would find room to fight. But they would fight, slipping on the blood soaked ground with their friends' gore all around them and causing even more to pour out.

Cassandra closed her eyes, willing herself to stop the stream of scenes that were filling her mind. She should not think of all this now. But how could she not think of it when it was all her world revolved around? Yes, she must think of something besides the war. Though nigh impossible she had to concentrate on something that did not drain her energy and weaken her spirit. Spirit? It was gone. Or, well nigh gone. She could not show it anymore. It was flickering, famishing, fading and soon finished. Her wit, her defiance, and prowess was gone. She was silent. What was the use? They would not listen to her and they would regret it bitterly. They were already sorrowing over the great death that had come upon them. Everyday some mother tore at her hair as she bent over the dead figure of her son, some daughter stroked helplessly at the hand of a lifeless father, and some girl fainted in horror when her lover's name was proclaimed as one of the deceased; some hero lost.

Who was to die today? Helenus, her dear twin brother? Hector, the champion of Troy whose very appearance at the lines caused the cowardly Greeks to shudder; would it be this brother? Or perhaps, Coroebus, her betrothed. This young prince had come, professing love for her and Priam, her father, promised her hand in exchange for him helping them drive the Greeks from their shores. But she would never marry him. Apollo would not allow it. It was part of his revenge on her for spurning his own love. But she did not regret her choice at his temple. Coroebus was her affianced, and love, but she would rather see him die than give herself to him impure.

The faint rays of the rising sun caught Cassandra's attention. She stared at it for what seemed like eternity as she watched it slowly, oh so slowly rise enough to cast a faint golden light over the ghastly field below. Her eyes moved over to the camp of the Greeks. It was still. They were not stirring, yet. Her own castle was silent. Everyone all around her, her friends, her families, her dreaded foes, all were asleep and all was peaceful. None were thinking of the horrors of war that would commence in just a few hours. Sweet dreams were theirs at the time, and all thought of calamities and terrors did not exist. It was a precious moment. They were one in a soothing sleep of tranquility.

It was the calm before the storm.


End file.
